Reality over Fantasy Any Day

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He’s twice been named the Sexiest Man Alive. He makes more money in memorizing ten lines than my husband makes all year. In another century, his ravishing good looks and muscular physique were undoubtedly the criteria that all Greek Gods set for themselves. Still he remains the boy next door that every woman in the world would love to call her very own. I’m talking about George Clooney—the Buttery Hotness himself.
Nevertheless, I turned him down, even though he never asked. I turned him down, straight as an arrow.
I turned him down for all of it, everything from the kisses that probably would start at my toes, go all the way up to my hairline scalp and last for at the very least, a day. I didn’t care about the Versace dresses, red carpet strolls, and the luxury penthouse suites. So Oprah wouldn’t call and Chef Ramsay wouldn’t give me his finest table at The London. It didn’t bother me in the least that I would never ride in a private jet, with my own personal flight attendant. Who gave a flying frying pan that the paparazzi were not interested in following me to the drug store?
I still turned George “the original Dr. McDreamy” Clooney down, without one microsecond’s hesitation.
Hey, even though it’s only fantasy—you might want to stop for a minute, put the hammer down, the gun too, and ask me why. Why did I turn him down?
I’ll tell you why.
Because of my husband who is by no means a fantasy.
His name is Kurt.

He’s not an internationally-known actor and he certainly doesn’t own an Italian villa. Although he’s lost over one hundred pounds and looks quite sexy, the phone isn’t exactly ringing off the hook with magazines calling to offer him covers.
What Kurt does do is generally work over sixty hours a week, as a software architect. For the most part, as long as you’re not comparing his salary to Kobe Bryant’s, Bill Gates’, or even a physician without student loans, Kurt does very well financially.

But at the end of the day, it’s not what Kurt does that made me turn George Clooney down; it’s what Kurt doesn’t do. That is the all important difference.

First of all, Kurt does not complain when I wake up at 3 a.m. just to tell him I am thirsty. His first words are always, “What would you like to drink?” Then, he goes to get it for me without a single complaint. Never mind that I usually fall back asleep before taking a sip of whatever he brought me.

Secondly, Kurt never utters a single word about not being in control of the television remote, not even when I issued a royal decree that reruns of Sanford and Son were much more relevant than the NBA Finals.

Kurt would never think of criticizing my cooking. According to him, my gourmet meals are never burnt. They are often roasted with dark flavor or blackened, and sometimes even marinated with dark spices. Also, Papa John’s on my grandmother’s China is considered to be an epicurean feast by my Kurt.

Housekeeping complaints—not from my husband. He completely believes me when I tell him that dust is the protective covering of all our furnishings.

If the laundry piles up for a week or two, he doesn’t utter one word; he simply starts a load of laundry.

And never does he grumble about the clothes I buy. In fact, he encourages me to buy more. He wants me to feel good about the way I look. Because of that…

He compliments my hairstyle even when I take off my expensive wig.

He doesn’t mimic me and call the extra skin around my waist “fat rolls”; they’re his “grips of love.”

On Mother’s Day when I’m crying for my own mother who passed away two weeks before her birthday in 1999, Kurt is the one who holds my hand and asks me to let my heart speak out loud. And on Father’s Day instead of enjoying his special day, he’s still there, asking me to relive precious moments with my father. 

These are the things that matter most to me.

So George I’m sorry, but hey, Kurt is the Sexiest Man Alive to me. He makes enough money to feed me, our two daughters, our dog Stephanie, and our cat Opie, and we still have enough money left for small luxuries like electricity and water.

I’m not sure how many people Kurt has inspired with his ravishing good looks, but he makes me smile every time I look at him, even from across a crowded room. He’s my Buttery Hotness, the original one. For me, there can be no imitation.
And yes, I know I’m passing up the Versace dresses, but to be honest, I’m not sure they come in my size; my soccer shorts generally serve me quite well. On those days when I’m feeling particularly dressy, Neiman Marcus turns me into a princess.

Me, on the red carpet, that would definitely have the cameras flashing. I tripped coming out of my mother. I prefer to keep my accidents on a local level.

What would Oprah and I have to talk about anyway? I’m not a couch jumper, not much of any kind of jumper. Even if I was involved in a love affair with George Clooney, I certainly wouldn’t want to share it with the world. As for eating at The London, I’ve been glancing at the menu, and it includes fine items like crab beignets, sautéed sea scallops, and cauliflower purée. What are these things? I’m a Georgia girl from the country. Was a page left out of the menu? Where are the fried chicken and potato salad?

Paparazzi—chasing me about and going through my trash? I’ll let them inside my house, no problem, as long as they’re willing to clean it.

The private jet? Well it’s not needed. At night, when my head is atop Kurt’s chest, I can feel his heart beating. During those moments, I know that I’m exactly where I want to be, and in this case, fantasy can never compete with the magic of reality.

Hopefully, you get the message this time George. Please stop calling and sending me emails! This goes for you too, Matt Damon and Brad Pitt. Both of you should be ashamed—you have children.


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